


Wuthering Tights

by kateyboosh, starsonthebrow



Category: The Mighty Boosh RPF
Genre: All the ancient dance terminology, Anthropomorphic singing dresses, Banter, But everyone is okay with it, Crack, Cutting rugs, Gratuitous discussion of accessories, Happy Ending, Harm is done to clothing, Julian dads out, Kate Bush references, M/M, Noel secretly likes it, Silkworms in jumpers, Texting, Tights glory hole, Tripping the light fantastic, eventually, this is normal, wait, what?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:41:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28034823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kateyboosh/pseuds/kateyboosh, https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsonthebrow/pseuds/starsonthebrow
Summary: How Cathy got off with her Heathcliff, despite the tights.
Relationships: Julian Barratt/Noel Fielding
Comments: 6
Kudos: 9
Collections: Trash Triplets Crackmas 2020: It's All About Range





	Wuthering Tights

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Terrantalen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Terrantalen/gifts).



> For Terrantalen. Merry Crackmas! We wrapped this one for you in a billowy red dress and some chewed tights. 
> 
> You’ll see. 
> 
> (And maybe you’ll start getting ads for extra strength unrippable nylons like we did, too.)

Noel slings the dress over his shoulder and fumbles with his mirrored closet door. He pushes past a row of silky buttondowns and tries to wedge it, garment bag and all, on the closet bar between his Orson coat and a furry hooded parka. He grimaces.

 _No point wrinkling it already_.

He shuts the closet door, scrapes a hand through his hair, and tosses the bag on his bed. He tries to tiptoe away as quietly as he can in his silver boots, but he can tell the dress hears him. He turns back. 

_It would be cruel to leave it in that bag, like a shroud_ , he reasons, unzipping it. He spreads the dress out on his bed, laying it down lovingly with its shoulders on the pillow. He puts an extra pillow behind it, just to be sure, and stops short of tucking it in under the duvet.

Still, the dress eyes him the entire time he runs his bath, a bit sweaty after rehearsal. The bright red billowy sleeves are loose and floaty and seductive even laying flat on the bed. Noel loses his t-shirt and then his jeans and boots, and the dress stares at him in his pants where he’s staring back from the doorway.

 _It gets dark, it gets lonely on the other side from you_ , the dress seems to trill. He pictures it floating out onto the heath while he adds bubbles to his bath, swishing and swaying and snagging on a branch while he’s none the wiser and covered in suds.

 _I pine a lot_ , the dress sings, reaching out for him, and Noel gives in.

It fits him as perfectly at home as it did when the nice ladies in the wardrobe took in the waist, stitched the hems, and flattened the seams for his last fitting an hour ago. 

_Alright_ , he thinks, _just one twirl and then I’ll get in before the water goes cold._

One twirl, and the fabric kisses his bare legs and rustles like leaves in a gentle breeze, and he can’t help but do another twirl, and as long as he’s in front of the mirror, he did want to work on those fluttery Wuthering Hands again, and it is really difficult to get that song out of your head once you’ve heard it fifteen times in rehearsal…

Noel’s phone buzzes where he’s left it in his jeans pocket on the bathroom floor.

Noel feels a surge of excitement when he sees the name appear. The text reads in an unmistakably Julian-like tone. 

_“What on earth are you doing over there, Fielding?”_

Before he can type out an explanation or a cheeky reply another text floods in. 

_“You’re looking quite beautiful, but dare I ask why?”_

Noel grins and bites his lip, flattered and feeling flirty he types out his response. 

_“does one ever really need a reason to be beautiful, ju? x”_ Quickly, he follows it with an, _“and you’re well creepy over there watching me like some peeping tom freak though. x”_

He peeks through the window as he responds, as if he can see Julian peering back, opening his message and laughing. He wishes he could hear it. 

Waiting for the ping of his mobile, he twirls again, swishes the bottom of his skirt, and plays a little with the black floral sash in the mirror, admiring the lines of his body. He’ll look good, at least, even if this dance ends up a disaster.

Julian’s response is typical when it comes through. _“First, you love it, you kinky bastard. It’s why you walk around naked with the curtains open.”_

_Ok well maybe he’s right about that_. Noel scrolls to the next message with a giggle on his lips.

_“Second, I thought with all that red you were sending a distress signal until I made out the dress.”_

Noel shoots back a text that he hopes expresses his (fake) outrage. _“i can’t help it if you’ve got some naked arse radar and can’t keep your peepers to yourself. x”_

He follows it with, _“how could you tell it’s a dress, julian? got the telescope out? x”_

 _“Bit hard to hide those legs in a skirt,”_ Julian responds.

Noel shrugs. True. He makes a mental note to ask the wardrobe lady to let him bring the matching tights home next time. 

The tights get him thinking, thinking about accessories. He’s got the sash and the wig and the flower for his hair. He’s got the red polish and the red lippie picked out, and the slippers that will let him move and twirl and do his cartwheel. He’s got nearly every accessory he needs to be the picture-perfect Cathy.

 _Nearly_ every accessory.

Can’t rightly be Cathy without his Heathcliff, can he? 

Noel purses his lips in a grin. He opens his camera, angles it perfectly to show off the lines of his face and the lines of the dress (and to peek a bit down his chest), and snaps a selfie to send to Julian.

_“Hello heathcliff, it’s me, cathy x x x x”_

Julian’s quick on the response. _“Not a chance, Fielding.”_

_“come on ju you’re well rugged, you were made to play him x”_

_“No way. Not happening.”_

Noel knows it’ll take a bit of persuasion, but he bets he can get Julian to give in in ten texts or less.

_“all the mums would love you? x”_

_“They already do.”_

Noel drums his fingers on the screen. _Think... think...._

_“all the dads would? x”_

_“I’ve captured both demographics quite handily already, thanks.”_

_“alright, fine. I would? x”_

_“Is that a question?”_

_“are you gonna do it or not? x”_

_“Can I dump you on your head again?”_

_“only in rehearsal x”_

There’s a pause, and then Noel’s phone buzzes.

_“Fine, but I’m not climbing in through your window.”_

Noel beams. _“fine, but i’m picking your wardrobe. come over tomorrow for rehearsal x x x x x”_

His dress wrinkles when he peels it off and draws himself another bath, but he’s sure it will forgive him. 

*

They’re both a little sweaty. Noel’s hair sticks to his forehead and juts out at odd angles where he’s run his hands through it. Julian is panting a little, out of breath and red faced. Noel moans as he lies on the floor, legs spread in a most unladylike way. Somewhere, Emily Bronte is rolling in her grave. 

“Can you believe we used to do this every night for an entire tour?” He gasps out, running his hands over his face. “Every night, lifting me like Patrick Swayze with your big northern arms.” 

Julian falls back on the couch groaning. “Nobody leaves Vince in the Arctic.That was your idea too, by the way. I’m not sure how I’ve ended up back in the same role.” 

Noel laughs, rolling to his side and pouting his lips seductively, “You saw the dress and and you knew you wanted to be involved.” He puts his hand on his hip when Julian rolls his eyes. “Besides, I’m still nimble as a cat.”

Julian laughs out a huff, “Are you saying I’ve lost it?” He raises an eyebrow, as about as dramatic as Julian gets. “I can still cut a rug. I know how to get down.” He falters a little as Noel rolls onto his back and cackles, holding his stomach. “No one can cut a rug like me!” 

When Noel finally stops laughing, he shakes his head. “You know, nevermind. I can’t be associated with anyone who says ‘cut a rug’ like we’ve just teleported to the present day.” 

Julian gets off the couch to tug at Noel’s hand and pull him up. “C’mon, let's trip the light fantastic.” He feels Noel wither with cringe as he stands with Julian tugging at his limp arm. Julian silently chuckles as enjoyment flows through him, like a parent embarrassing their kids at the grocery store. 

“Seriously, do I know you? Are you a ghost from the 1800’s?” He says, voice raising an octave as he snaps his hand away. 

Julian deadpans, “It’s spooky how good I’ve got the moves.” He moves his arms in a decidedly ungood fashion and Noel steps away from him.

“Get away from me. I’m moving house and not telling you where I’m going.” He says, backing away slowly as if Julian might pull him into his aura of uncoolness; as if he could catch it like a cold. 

“Right, Fielding. You’d be bored and texting me in 15 minutes.” He says smoothly, still moving his arms and shaking his hips, waggling his eyebrows as Noel watches with horror. “You asked for Heathcliff. Here I am, baby.” 

Noel fixes his hands squarely over his eyes. “That’s it, I’m calling Richard. He was born to play Heathcliff. You can sit in the audience and watch after that, if you’re lucky.”

Julian waits until Noel peeks from between his fingers to lean down and give him a peck on the lips. “Come on, Cathy.” He checks his watch. “Let’s give it another go. Plenty of time for more where that came from.” 

“That’s what I’m worried about,” Noel says around a grin. 

*

They get through another run-through, and another, and another, until they’re both sure Julian won’t spill Noel onto his head when Cathy leaps into Heathcliff’s arms at the end of the dance. It’s like riding a bicycle, Noel flying into Julian’s strong arms, Julian cradling his body to his chest when they twirl.

Noel pants. He smooths his dress down over his thighs. “Once more?”

Julian tugs at his collar, adjusts the hem of his shirt. He plants his legs apart. His eyes twinkle when he beckons. “Once more never hurt anyone.”

It’s like riding a sexy, sexy bicycle. 

This time, when Noel leaps and Julian catches him, he doesn’t set Noel down after his twirl. He hefts him, practically up over his shoulder, and Noel squeals.

“What you doin’?”

“Rehearsal’s over,” Julian responds as he strides down the hall and kicks Noel’s bedroom door open.

“Alright,” Noel squeaks. 

Julian does drop him on his head then, but at least it’s onto the center of his bed instead of a stage floor this time, and he’s already a bit dizzy from the quickest erection he’s ever gotten wearing a dress anyway. 

Noel giggles as he watches Julian strip. He unties his sash and tosses it up by the pillows. “Can I call you Heathcliff, then?”

“Only if you keep the dress,” Julian grins. His shirt hits the floor and his belt and trousers and pants meet it in quick succession.

“Fair enough,” Noel responds. He wiggles until he’s in the exact center of the bed and then lifts his tights-clad leg to Julian’s shoulder. “Go on and get rid of these.” He pauses and drops his voice down low. “ _Heathcliff._ ”

Julian growls. 

He tugs. He twists and turns and pulls and pushes, which really doesn’t help, but Noel decides to stay positive instead of pointing it out. 

The tights don’t budge. 

“Are these stitched on? Superglued? Were you born wearing these and I just noticed?” Julian pants.

“No,” Noel gasps, his erection straining against the tights. He’s hard enough, watching Julian work, that if he concentrates, maybe he can pop his dick through the seam at his crotch, split them clean in two and-

No, he won’t be able to explain that one to the nice wardrobe ladies. 

Julian struggles. He flips Noel over to his stomach and searches his arse for a hidden zipper, a panel of buttons, written instructions, any clue. It just makes Noel harder and more desperate.

He’s ready to agree when Julian flips him back over, swipes his arm across his forehead and says, “It’s no use. We’ll just have to rut.”

Julian’s dick is inches away from his, close enough to feel the heat filtering in through the material. He hears the click of the lube cap and the sound of Julian spreading it slick over his cock with both hands, and then Noel realizes the tights are staying on. 

He’s going to be sticky and sweaty and gross very soon, trapped in the tights like a red nylon prison.

“Julian,” he says, his voice hysterical, eyes the size of dinner plates, “get these off of me! I’ll size up next time! Julian, we can- we can rip ‘em!”

Desperation forces the words out of his mouth before his brain can catch up. He regrets them immediately. How could he ever suggest intentionally hurting clothes? He has accessories with life insurance policies. No way he’s the type of person to just destroy well made fashion items, even if he does really want to be naked and have his dick touched immediately. 

He’d have to go find an exact replica. Fashion his own from...whatever material those things are made of. Do they come from silkworms? Might be cool, he considers, having some pet silkworms weaving him some pants from time to time. He shakes his thoughts away quickly. (He’d have them wearing little silkworm jumpers for sure.) 

He jolts back to reality when he processes the image of Julian in front him, panting, turned on and ready to ravage him in the best way. He’s got the lube already spread on his fingers, holding them up as if he’s just prepped for surgery. “Um,” he gestures vaguely to Noel’s predicament. “Looks like you’re meant to be doing the ripping here.” 

“Why have you already lubed, Julian?!” Noel squeaks in desperation. “How do you lube before both parties are naked?!” Julian shrugs and Noel feels his blood pressure rise. Panicked, he thinks of sheepishly presenting the shreds of his hose to the wardrobe ladies. Maybe explaining he’d been attacked by a wolf. It wouldn’t be too big of a lie....

“Rip them off with your teeth, Ju!” He whines. “Please, anything. I can’t do it.” 

Julian stills and Noel sees his expression change. A wave of contemplation washes over his face as he thinks about this request. _Might be cool,_ he’s thinking. _Might be a sexy thing_. Julian likes to show off for Noel. He’d never admit it, but Noel knows he sometimes likes being big bad Julian, and this is a prime opportunity. 

They both find pretty quickly that it is not, in fact, possible to be _cool_ trying to rip pantyhose off with your teeth. Nor is it really all that _sexy_. Especially with Julian struggling not to gag on the feel of the material in his mouth and making little noises that are not at all wolflike. Attempting to pull them apart is proving to be useless because apparently these are the strongest, most indestructible tights in the world. 

(Noel is now recalling a particular conversation in which had complained of being rubbish at keeping hose intact, and at… erm… keeping certain immodest parts of him relatively _modest_ , and the ladies nicely offering to produce the strongest pair on the market. He does not share this memory with Julian.) Instead, he suffers through another few minutes (Hours? Has it been several hours?) of patting Julian on the head as supportively as he can and cringing before he tells him to _Please. Give up, Ju._

“I liked it better when you were talking about cutting rugs. That did much more for my erection.” Noel groans, “This isn’t working at all.” 

Julian drops his head against Noel’s thigh, defeated. “Well, sorry, princess, maybe if you lost the erection you’d have more room to get these things off.” 

Noel squirms. “Yeah, I didn’t account for that when I was talking to the nice eighty-year-old woman that was hemming me up. ‘Go on, be a dear and make sure I have enough room for a raging stiffy in my tights, love. Oh, no, really, it’s fine, it’s not a literal interpretation of Kate Bush, it’s an erotic edition of Let’s Dance.’” 

Noel sighs and leans back against the pillows. He’s never getting out of these tights, he’s decided, so before he dies from shapewear-induced misery of a cock-based nature, he needs to ask an important question.

“Julian, can I ask you something?”

“Yep,” Julian pants out. He spits out some red fibers onto Noel’s duvet.

“Julian, was Cathy a ghost? Do ghosts get surprise erections? Oooooooo," he says, going from Wuthering Hands to scary ghost, fingers outstretched, ready to haunt. 

He feels the bed shaking.

"You've got to stop doing that if you ever want these to come off," Julian says.

Noel half-sits. “Are you laughing, Ju’n?” 

Through a choked grimace and a face redder than Noel’s mauled yet still stubbornly intact tights, Julian manages to get out a “no.”

Noel takes one look at him and bursts into a cackle that he’s sure will have broken a seam when he’s done, tears running down the sides of his face and trickling into his ears. Julian, for his part, is laughing so hard he’s past the point of making noise, holding his glistening hands up like some type of crazed, hysterical sex criminal. 

“Stop,” Noel gasps, scrabbling to pull the hem of his skirt over his face, “you’ve got to stop looking at me like that or-”

Julian holds his slicked hands up again and immediately falls over the side of the bed to the soundtrack of an almighty rip that Noel thinks might be a hole forming in the fabric of time and space via his bedroom.

He feels a slight breeze on his legs, and he grins.

“Julian! Ju’n!” Noel pats at his hips, then his thighs, then his calf, and he feels bare skin when he touches his left knee. “Ju! I think-”

Julian’s hand comes off the floor into Noel’s vision. He’s holding a scrap of red nylon in his slick palm. He waves. “I’m alright, I’m fine. Just down here.”

“Ju, what are you doing down there?! Come on, the tights!” Noel enthuses. “Whatever you did just then worked! Do it again!”

Noel is tired of being patient. While Julian is lost in a haze of lube and shredded material, he leans down and starts to tear at the rip in his thigh until it comes away from his now struggling erection. He feels his body shift back to the task at hand (Julian’s hand that is, wrapping around his dick, hopefully) as his dick springs free when he’s ripped just enough away. He’ll worry about the rest later. He’ll worry about all the consequences later. 

Overall, Julian seems paralyzed with giggles by now. He’s watching Noel rip and tear his hose into a sort of tights glory hole while he’s unable to physically remove himself from the floor. Noel is thoroughly not amused anymore. “Julian, focus. Think about your dick.” 

Julian snorts, still holding his slicked hands up, unable to wipe the mirth from his eyes. “Help.” Is all he can muster before he falls backward again laughing. 

It’s not often Noel is confronted by full on laughing when he gets his dick out. If he wasn’t so desperate to be touched he’d take his destroyed tights and what’s left of his dignity and leave. Er, well then he’d realize this is his house and he doesn’t need to leave. He would take his dignity to shove Julian out the front door. 

Instead, he shoves his dignity out the window and joins Julian on the floor, straddling him as sexily as he can muster in this moment and pressing their mouths together to mute the bigger man’s giggles. 

Julian’s amusement fades nearly instantly as Noel shifts to let both of their (now fully naked) dicks glide together under his dress. The giggles morph to moans pretty quickly as he slides his hands up to clutch at Noel’s arse. Finally, Noel feels vindicated. Not how he imagined the day going really, but it’s ended mostly how he wanted.

He rocks his hips into Julian and grins. He leans down to whisper into Julian’s ear, wishing he had his Cathy wig. He feels like the statement he’s about to make deserves a hair flick.

“Hello, Heathcliff, it’s me, Cathy. I’ve come home.”

Julian grins back and thrusts up against him. “Was the original Cathy so- _oh, wow_ \- so… well endowed?”

Noel moans. “Oh, Christ. Keep that up and- _oh, Heathcliff-_ ”

His voice breaks as it soars at least as high as Kate Bush’s soprano.

The resulting orgasms and the slightly wrinkled dress do not make Heathcliff’s appearance during the next day’s performance awkward in the least. 

The bright red lipstick all over Heathcliff’s collar and around the fly of his trousers is a little suspect, though.


End file.
